In vain; thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Thou giv'st them back-nor to the broken heart. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee Earth's wonder and her pride Labors of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, Love, that midst grief began, And grew with years, and faltered not in death. Full many a mighty name Thine for a space are they- Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, Shall then come forth to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime. They have not perished-no! Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul's apparent seat. Upon the mountain's distant head, With trackless snows forever white. "UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD," p. 139. All shall come back; each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again; And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young. "UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD." UPON the mountain's distant head, With trackless snows forever white, But far below those icy rocks, The vales, in summer bloom arrayed, Are dim with mist and dark with shade. 'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts, And eyes But lingers with the cold and stern. THE EVENING WIND. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou 140 Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone; a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep: And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, |